


Running From The Sun

by Mallaeus



Series: Mallaeus' X-Men Not-So-Cinematic Universe [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Colossus Is A Sweetheart, Complicated Relationships, Crushes, Dating, Family Feels, Loneliness, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Original Characters - Freeform, Pining, Running, Side Story, Unrequited Crush, situationship - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:48:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22516489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mallaeus/pseuds/Mallaeus
Summary: A voice, an accent so heavy it is difficult to understand beneath the sounds of his laboured cries. A voice that is more motion than sound — sensory confusion as the vibration that shook his body is translated into language. The physical becomes immaterial, movement becomes sound becomes thought becomes comfort."It is okay. It is okay. You are not alone, my friend."Kyle is in love with his best friend, who does not appear to feel the same.Pining ensues.EDIT as of 30/3/20: Adjusted dates to better fit the chronology of my universe, bringing everything together.
Relationships: John Allerdyce/Bobby Drake, Kurt Wagner/Warren Worthington III, Piotr Rasputin/Original Character(s)
Series: Mallaeus' X-Men Not-So-Cinematic Universe [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1614586
Kudos: 9





	1. A Matter of Time

**Author's Note:**

> Hi bitch, bet you thought you'd seen the last of me?
> 
> Decided to go a slightly different route with the release of my X-Men stuff.
> 
> Full disclosure, it's a little daunting to undertake a fic with an actual plot that doesn't revolve around a relationship, so I've been writing these smaller pieces as writing exercises, as well as fleshing out characters and relationships which don't really get the spotlight in the main story. What that means for you, dear reader, is that you get to enjoy some lovely pining over the next 6.5k words.
> 
> *Another* note: Kyle is Quicksilver (i.e., the Evan Peters version). Pietro Maximoff exists in this universe, but it's tricky. We'll get to it eventually. Same powers, different stories, it's all good.
> 
> Otherwise, keep a look out for the last one of these side stories; Sacrilege, coming soon. There's a little preview of it somewhere in this fic, lemme know if you find it.
> 
> Otherwise, I've rambled enough, go read.

**June, 2009**

_"Get out of my house! And don't you_ ever _come back!"_

_"Momma-"_

_"I don't wanna hear it! I will_ not _raise a mu-" A pause as her voice cuts off, unwilling to let that word escape into the air where a neighbor might come across it, "One of you_ freaks _in my house!"_

_The door slams in his face, rattling in its frame with a forceful finality._

_He sits — collapses, really, legs no longer able to bear the burden of his frame — on the rough wooden planks of their porch, for lack of anything else to do. His back rests against the wood painted a disgusting pine green — dead trees in imitation of living. She had packed him a bag, at least — his clothes jammed haphazardly into a duffle bag as if in a hurry. Always a hurry. Always rushing — away from him, away from the dark stain he represented in her life, her reputation. Always uneasy._

_He wonders about his other possessions, what little of them there were. What would happen to the shrine of trophies — track meets, cross country, a marathon? Would she throw them away? Pawn them off? Melt them down into a puddle of gilded bronze? Cast it into a mould, build a new son who could never disappoint her in his imperfections?_

_He stares at his hands, studies the spaces between his fingers. He wonders about spaces, about distances. Distances to be crossed in haste — faster, always faster, than the people behind him — no time for rest. The space between his fingers becomes the space between words, between conversations — between affection and disgust, mother and son._

_A jagged distance that coalesces into something more solid, a spear through the chest, missing all of his vital organs. Pain without the release of death, nothing but pain, dull and aching and agonizingly sharp all at once. She had had enough. Enough of pretending, that was what she had said. Enough of acting like he would ever be normal, ever able to live like the other kids. He had tried to explain to her that he_ had _been living like the other kids, but she wouldn't hear him._

_She had detached from him — the product of her own body rendered abject before her, a twisted mirror of reality. She reels in violent revulsion at his touch, at his attempt to reach out to her, to hold on to her physically, as if that would draw her back to him._

_Part of his soul soars, finally free to roam, free of the stifling heat of that Texas summer, free of the dust that settled all over every surface of the house no matter how many times you cleaned. It got into you, that dust, coated your insides with grey. They were ash on the inside — he, his mother, everyone in this neighborhood. They were all made of ash. He could be himself now, whatever that meant. Find water, clean the dust from his system, see himself reflected in the mirror of the surface — at once familiar and totally changed. Two beings in one — Gemini._

_He never does cry, in the intervening moments between his mother's rejection and the arrival of Warren and Piotr. He stared at their lawn — his mother's lawn, now — stared at the cracked, parched earth, begging for moisture from a sky so clear and blue that it hurt to look at. He stares at the baked clay, willing a tear to run from his eye to the ground, to grant that soil what it yearned for, to provide something for once in his life._

_He doesn't cry as he is offered a new life with these strangers. They speak of their home — a place where people like him, like them, could exist free of hate, free of danger. They tell him about their team, always on call to protect, to serve, to defend. He gives himself up to them easily. Nothing to lose. He catches their exchanged glances, disturbed at the emptiness that echoes in the hollow of his voice._

_He doesn’t cry as they lead them to their jet — far more sophisticated than anything he had ever seen outside of a movie. A vertical take off, barely disturbing the silence of the street where he had lived his whole life up to that point. He wonders about home — what it means. 'Home is where the heart is', a slogan stitched into fabric, hanging on the wall in the living room. Perhaps that was why it never had felt like home. His heart had always been somewhere else. Maybe that was why he ran — always chasing, always seeking._

_He cries as they breach the clouds — the sky opening itself to them in a vast swathe of untouched blue — great heaving sobs that wracked his entire body. Tears flood out of him, unbidden, but not unwelcome, enough to flood the lawn of the home he left behind. Enough that the salt might kill the already-dying earth, so that nothing would grow again. He was aware of their presence in the cockpit. He is aware of a hushed voice, pleading in deference to another's expertise — "Pete, c'mon man you know I'm no good at this stuff, please."_

_It was in that moment, his body unleashing his grief as a tempest — a hurricane trapped within the metallic confines of the jet — that a hand finds his. A hand much larger than his own, stronger. Five fingers, a wide, flat palm covered in skin so soft, so rough, so perfectly textured. An arm held steady before him, undaunted by the weight of Kyle's body as he anchors himself to it. His own hands — bony, long-fingered, pale — gripped the offered limb as though it were a fallen tree trunk in a raging river — his only chance to stay above the churn of the water. Another arm around his shoulders, a hand pressed to the side of his head, a chest into which his face is buried, tears stoppered against muscle and bone and skin and a heart so pure it sings. He embraces this statue — a monument to divinity that walks among humanity — lets his frailty display itself in its entirety, lets this figure absorb his misery into his perfection. Free of judgement._

_A voice, an accent so heavy it is difficult to understand beneath the sounds of his laboured cries. A voice that is more motion than sound — sensory confusion as the vibration that shook his body is translated into language. The physical becomes immaterial, movement becomes sound becomes thought becomes comfort._

_"It is okay. It is okay. You are not alone, my friend."_

_You are not alone._

**June, 2013**

And yet, here he was.

He turned his head. The clock read 05:37. Seven minutes had passed since his alarm had rung. Seven minutes trapped in his own subconscious, reliving the worst moment of his life up to that point. That was progress, in its own way. He was down from fifteen minutes this time last year. Maybe by the time he turned twenty-five, he might be able to just get up right away. For now, he remained still, resting in the sensations of the covers against his skin — fabric against him, cotton-soft and pure white, something to which he could anchor his mind. Totems, trinkets, these mythical objects to which we tether ourselves, pulling reality into formation around us so that we may move through it. He felt it most keenly when he ran — that is, when he utilized his powers — that sensation of detachment from the universe itself. Hank had run his experiments on him, devised a number of exercises that would grant him a greater understanding of the physics-defying nature of Kyle’s powers. His conclusions had been interesting — positing that Kyle’s power initiated some ‘cosmic decoupling’ — Hank’s words — which caused Kyle to become unstuck from the laws of physics which normally bound all objects. When he ran, truly ran with all of his might, he became something else. A non-entity, with regards to thermodynamics. Hank had been elated at the discovery, and some modicum of that enthusiasm had rubbed off on Kyle. He had begun his own experiments in the Danger Room — tests of inertia, of collision, of his capacity to share his abilities with others.

And thus his mind returns to its usual place — _him_. Kyle recalls the feeling of Piotr underneath him, the broad berth of his shoulders upon which he sat, the stabilizing presence of his palm, warm and flat and strong against the base of his back. He remembered the sensation as they moved together — at a human pace to begin, before Kyle tuned his mind to the sublimity of speed, let himself — and Piotr — be enveloped by the universe. Piotr had stopped abruptly, unused to the feeling of travelling so fast. He stooped, Kyle hopping off his shoulders to kneel beside him where his head rested between his knees, unable to stop himself from giggling.

“I think that maybe I am needing to get used to it first, Kyle.”

Kyle couldn’t speak through his laughter, settling for a hand on Piotr’s shoulder. He let his hand linger, committing the sensation of Piotr’s muscle under his palm to memory. He dreamed about that often — that moment of contact which spread through his body like an electric current. 

He had been a member of the team for nine months at that point, and already he had fallen for Piotr. 

His mind swam back to the present — 05:39. He raised his arms from where they lay flat on the bed, reaching for the ceiling above him in a great stretch. He reached until he felt the tension in his back reach a peak, and then released it with a great sighing whoosh of breath. He swung his body over the edge of the bed and stood, another creaking sigh escaping as he did so. His joints cracked in unison — toes, knuckles, spine, knees — all popping together as he shook sleep from his body. His room was cast in the half-light of a summer dawn and he dressed in its embrace.

It was time to run.

The sun had risen almost an hour and a half ago, and had almost broken the treeline surrounding the mansion. The sky was streaked with delicate pinks and oranges, and he almost felt appreciative of it. Morning clouds — wispy and faint against the already brightening sky — swept along lazily, awaiting their dissolution by the midday sun. A night chill lingered in the air, prompting him to toss on a sweatshirt, the same one he wore every time he went for his morning run — grey aged into something beyond, his highschool logo faded past recognition. He stretched lightly, pulling and pushing his muscles into action as he took off at his usual pace.

One hour, as many laps of the mansion grounds as he can.

The grass needed to be trimmed — it was Bobby’s turn, but he had been caught up with his boyfriend, who had finally moved in to the mansion. Another face for Kyle to remember, another member of the family. He recalled once more the feeling that had spread through his body as he was shown around the mansion, all that time ago. He remembered crying again — little shining tears of happiness that coursed down his face, he unwilling to swipe them away. He remembered Xavier’s words in his head, speaking without voice.

“You need not explain yourself to me, Kyle, nor anyone. I understand your pain. I want you to know that this is your home now, if you’ll call it that. This is a home for those who may not have one of their own. We are a family.”

His reply had been breathless, throat swimming in emotions beyond his seventeen years, “Thank you.”

The smell of flowers — pollen and chlorophyll and plant pheromones — brought him back to reality, out of his mind. He let himself revel in it for a moment. That was something he never took for granted, the smell of flowers — of grass, of trees, of soil — in the morning. Before most people had awoken, before the peace of dawn was broken by noise and motion. That was Kyle’s time.

His mind drifted somewhere above the pines as his body moved on autopilot, floating into the air to greet the clouds before they went along their way for the afternoon. Faintly in the back of his mind he could hear birdsong, sweet and melodic, within the trees. He had read about birds, about their singing. They did it to attract mates. Every morning was open mic night in the forest, tiny creatures screaming "Fuck me! Dear God somebody fuck me!" into the ether as they fluttered from branch to branch. It was only human romanticism that painted it any differently.

They were just looking for the same thing as everyone else.

**April, 2012**

It had come up fairly casually in their conversation, the discussion of sexuality and who had been with who and all of those sorts of things. Perhaps it was Ororo's absence —a visit to her family for her mother's birthday — that had loosened their tongues. Scott had been the quietest — Kyle suspected he was embarrassed, mortified at the notion of his teammates, brothers, knowing those intimate things about himself — yet still he relented. He was as straight as they come. Boring. Predictable. Bobby had been the same, in reverse. He was gay, and didn’t seem to care a whole lot who knew and who didn’t. He didn’t balk as they grilled him about who he had been with — how many, how often, where did he find them? — giving up the information freely, without shame. Kyle had admired that. It wasn’t often he felt himself wanting to be more like Bobby, but he certainly had in that moment.

Hank had been less forthcoming. He had had partners, yes, he made certain of that. But there was something unidentifiable under the surface, some lingering doubt that he seemed not to have been able to figure out in the interim. They eased off of him, his expression having taken on an uncomfortable, troubled aspect. Warren had broken the silence in his own way — all brash and bravado with his tales of conquest of anyone and everyone under the sun. Kyle thought he was full of it, but couldn’t deny the way his eyes lingered on Warren’s mouth when he spoke. He felt his mouth pool with saliva, swallowed hard. He didn't need to give Warren the satisfaction.

And so, his time had come. He had been dreading his turn, honestly — had considered backing out. But something in his mind switched — an easy lightness spreading through him which encouraged him to speak his truth.

“I’m gay, yeah. Wasn’t somethin’ I had been thinking a whole lot about, but now that I do, I figure I must be. I’ve never even so much as looked at a girl sideways, but I can remember a few boys at the track meets that I would have liked to get to know a little better.”

They laughed at that as a group, the nodding understanding of being different in high school, of not liking who they were supposed to. Bobby pushed it, though. He probed about what he _had_ done, _who_ he had done. Kyle’s mouth went dry. He shrugged.

“Haven’t gotten around to it a whole lot. Or at all, I guess.”

He felt the air leave the room, saw Bobby’s face contract into an apologetic grimace.

“Hey, you know it’s not a race. I hope I didn-.”

Piotr interrupted Bobby, seemingly unknowingly. He looked distant as he spoke, eyes on the floor. His voice was a low rumble through the silent atmosphere of the room.

“I think I might be like Warren.”

Bobby spoke again, desperate to lighten the mood, “An asshole?”

Warren made a face at Bobby, a simpering, mocking grin.

“No. I am thinking about people that I have loved in my life — as well as those who I have felt things, confusing things, about. I think that I may also like men, as well as women. I have never thought about it before. A-at home-” His voice faltered, memories of Russia returning to him, unbidden. “At home, these are not things that I would like to express in public. I could not walk down the street with a man as I would a woman. But here…” He trailed off, no one willing to pick up the thread again.

Scott spoke then, unexpectedly, his voice soft.

“That’s okay, Peter. You don’t have to understand it all right now. We’re here to talk to, if you need.”

Bobby’s infectious desire for levity had clearly passed to Warren, who reached out for Piotr’s knee, his face the picture of understanding, “And, you know, if you ever want to experiment…”

Laughter broke out once more, the air rushing back in to fill the space it had vacated. They relaxed once more, easy smiles and jokes and laughter. Kyle was the only one who remained tense, some unnameable uneasiness floating in the back of his throat.

Kyle’s thoughts swam that evening. He thought of Piotr — of his hands on Kyle’s shoulders after a particularly exhausting afternoon in the Danger Room, of the way he panted heaving breaths behind him. He thought of his body, the way it reflected sunlight like the untroubled surface of a lake, the way it stood sculpted from marble, from metal — a body forged by divine hands and sent to Earth, a gift from the gods. 

His hand reached below his covers, thoughts reeling. He was drowning in his best friend. Caught in the riptide of desire, pulled beneath the waves, beneath the covers.

He cleaned himself off as his breathing returned to a rest. Shame filled the empty pit in his stomach, bubbling up and over, spilling out of his body with every hurried breath. He felt trapped, claustrophobic.

He ran that night — longer than he had for months. He ran until the sun peaked over the tips of the pine trees, until the night’s chill had been long forgotten in the emerging light of day.

He slept through the afternoon, emerging after dinner into the common room where Piotr sat alone, eyes on the television.

“Hello, Kyle. I saw you running this morning. You must have been very tired after, you had been out for so long.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t sleep."

“Why not?”

Piotr had lowered the volume on the television, turned towards where Kyle stood next to the couch. Kyle lowered himself to the cushions, sat next to him, close enough to touch. There was a moment of silence as light flickered across both of their faces, electric blues and blacks and whites flashing with the action on the screen. He thought about his answer. He considered lying. He considered the implications of what he was about to say, what it might do to him, to Piotr, to the team.

“I think… I think I like you, Piotr. As more than a friend.”

Piotr’s face fell, and with it, the floor of Kyle’s mind. He felt himself falling, willing the world to right itself again, to go back to before he had spoken. His stomach lurched, blood hammered in his temples. His vision fizzed, blurring at the edges as the room faded into itself.

“I do not think… I do not think that is a good thing for us to do, Kyle. I-I am afraid. I am worrying that perhaps if we do that, that you may come to regret it. I… am a person who is very… what is the word? I-... in-...” Kyle watched as he groped ineffectually for the word, face scrunched in pained concentration. Piotr's English was impeccable for the most part — some wonky constructions here and there where his Russian syntax refused to relinquish influence — and so his inability to find words was always indicative of some inner turmoil.

“Intense?”

“Yes! I am very intense, that is what they tell me. The girls I have been with before. They say I am too much, that I give too much, that I do not let them breathe. They grow to resent me, they hate that I am unable to hide what I feel for them.” His eyes refused to meet Kyle's. They were trained on the floor, but Kyle had the sneaking suspicion that his mind was somewhere else entirely. 

“Right.”

“Do not think that I do not love you. You are my teammate, my friend, my brother. Yes, I love you, as one does all of their family. But no, I fear for that love if I were to be with you in the way you desire. I fear that you may grow to hate me, as they did. I do not want you to hate me.” Kyle's heart thrilled at the sound of 'I love you', untroubled by the words in between and around. He felt the droop in his shoulders, felt his eyes slipping to that same spot on the floor that had had Piotr so fascinated before.

“I-” A sigh, frustrated and lonely. “I understand, Piotr. I do. I’m sorry I brought it up. Maybe we can forget about it?”

Piotr met his gaze finally, sympathy colouring his features. He was so beautiful, a man plucked from the dreams of artists, fashioned in the image of perfection. He hurt to look at.

“I am sorry, Kyle. I hope we may still be friends. I would not want to lose my best friend.

Kyle let loose the breath he had been holding tightly in his chest — heart broken, but not shattered, not pounded to dust. He groped for levity, Warren's incessant voice shooting to the forefront of his mind. His nickname for Piotr.

“I’ll still be here, Lugnut, don’t worry about that.”

“I see that Warren’s name has caught on with you also.”

Kyle smiled as they embraced. 

He tried not to hold on too tightly, or for too long.

Part of him wondered if he succeeded.

**September, 2013**

"I worry about him, Bobby."

Bobby turned to regard John where he sat, half-in and half-out of the window, smoking. Bobby had asked him innumerable times to just go and stand outside like a normal person, but he ardently refused. Bobby didn't mind much — John was a vision where he sat, curled in the antique wood frame like someone out of a movie. His face was half-illuminated by moonlight, streaming in from a clear sky. Smoke trailed from between his fingertips, flowing from his mouth with every breath. When Bobby held him in his arms, he smelled like pine, like grass, like wood and love and home. He had almost cried when he spotted him from the jet, standing on the porch, awaiting their return. He had tried to be aloof about it, claiming he had coincidentally been out for a smoke at just the right time, but Bobby hadn't bought it. There was too much of a waver in his hands, voice too shaky, mouth too greedy on his.

"Worry about who?"

John flicked some of the ash from the end of his cigarette, watching it cascade down towards the flowerbeds beneath his bedroom window. Bobby had risen, in search of his clothes that had been scattered across the room as they crashed through it hours before, desperate to get at one another after two weeks apart. Bobby had been on a mission in Sarajevo, and John had been at his limit with video calling and intermittent photos whenever Bobby had a free moment. He plodded around on the wood floors, John watching the muscles in his body shift and twist around one another as he bent to grab his t-shirt. Their eyes met for a moment, Bobby flashing him a grin which he couldn't help but return, his thoughts of Kyle fleeing momentarily.

"It's Kyle," he sighed, "He just seems so listless lately. I know I haven't known him that long, but I feel like even in the last four months, he's been even less talkative, less himself. I dunno, Bobby, I'm worried."

"Join the club," he replied, pulling his shirt on over his head, sighing in annoyance as he realized it was backwards.

John watched Bobby with deadpan curiosity, wondering how he had been so blinded by affection that he had failed to notice that Bobby's IQ hovered somewhere in the single digits. He flamed the butt of his cigarette to ash in his palm and let it float away on the evening breeze, shutting the window to the encroaching chill.

"I might try talk to him."

He embraced Bobby from behind, laying his cheek against his shoulders. His hand rubbed circles into Bobby's stomach as he straightened. 

"Just… be careful. I don't want him to feel like a specimen, okay? I don't want him to think that we all hate him, or that we're hovering."

**March, 2014**

"I don't know why everyone keeps on askin' me how I am. I'm _fine_. I've been fine."

John flicked his cigarette to the ground, stubbing it out under the heel of his shoe. He had caught Kyle as he stretched before his run. It was early evening, the sky fading into shades of lavender as the sun dipped below the treetops. The air smelled of vegetation, the distinct scent of plants at night. The air was brisk, not that it bothered John. His breath — running hotter than your average person's — misted in front of him with every word, mingling with the smoke still left in his lungs.

"Cut the bullshit, Kyle. I've known you for all of about four months and even I can tell that something's off."

Kyle whirled around to him, a nerve having very evidently been touched. His hands clutched his hips, biting into the flesh. He was restraining himself. John could tell easily. He wondered who would win if it came to it. Probably Kyle. He had been doing this superhero gig for a while now.

"That's all I ever hear from anybody in this fuckin' place. Everybody knows something's wrong with me, except me. Tell me, if I'm so fucked up, what are y'all gonna do about it? Nobody's offering me any help, you just wanna know what's going on inside my head so you can fuckin' gossip with your boyfriend once he gets home."

John felt the needle of his words under his skin. He knew it was a defense mechanism, one he had employed himself many times past. It wasn't gossip, if you truly cared, right? But truly, Kyle had a point. What was he offering, honestly?

"Kyle. Please. I want to help. I thought maybe me being someone from the outside might help, might make it easier for you."

A sigh — air rushing out, anger following close behind, banished to the wind. Kyle scrubbed a hand up and down his face, the other on his hip. He was trying to calm himself. He understood John's intentions. It didn't make it any easier.

"Listen to me. I know y'all know what's up my ass at the moment. It's our little open secret, huh?"

John nodded. He knew, of course he knew. Everyone did.

"So why keep pushing me? When you all fucking know? When every single person in this whole fuckin' house knows why I'm so goddamned miserable every day? Are you gonna tell him?"

"Of course not, I wouldn-"

"Then what's the point! If you're not gonna do anything, why are you asking? Just leave me be, and let me be depressed, and let me run in peace, alright?"

John sighed pointedly. His voice softened, lowered to a barely audible whisper.

"You don't have to be alone."

John turned and left him to his track around the house. Kyle stood there for a long time, fists clenched at his sides, willing the tears not to fall. 

He took off at a sprint, letting the night air whip his hair, flow through his mind, rustling debris where they had settled at the front of his thoughts.

**November, 2014**

"I don't resent you."

Kyle's voice broke the silence of the jet. Ororo turned to him, confusion plain on her face. They hadn't spoken a word to one another the entire flight. There had been no mission — it was simply their turn to get groceries for the mansion. They had passed the time amicably in the supermarket. Kyle had been easy, smiling, joking, laughing. It was the phone call. Piotr had called her, asking her to pick something up at the last second. As she put her phone away, she noticed it, the steep, sheer cliff that had arisen between them. Kyle retreated into himself, a profound silence entering the space once filled by their voices. They had moved in that silence then — packing bags into the jet, preparing for take off — all the way up into the clouds before he spoke.

"Huh?"

"For being with him. I don't resent you."

She wasn't expecting that. They had long been friends, she and Kyle. She felt a connection with him — the little brother she had never had. They weren't far apart in age, a year or two between them. Still, she felt it — the need to be there for him. He had no family — an orphan by design, rather than circumstance — and so she understood that the X-Men were more than just a team to him. And so, as she and Piotr had entered their situation together, she had been dismayed at Kyle's retraction into himself, the invisible gulf he placed in between their once strong friendship.

"I'm not with him. Not in that way."

"As far as he's concerned, you are."

Her face tightened. He spoke to her as if he could read her mind. He spoke to her as if he was privy to those conversations she held with herself, where she questioned where she and Piotr were going. How long could it last? She could see it in his eyes. He wanted more from her, something she wasn't able to give him.

"But we've talked about it… he knows-"

"He's lying to you, Ororo. He thinks if he sticks around long enough, you'll come around. He doesn't operate like that. You know him. Whatever you guys have now has never been his end goal. How do you not see it in his face when he looks at you? How do you not see the way his hands shake when you're near him? He wants to touch you all the time, Ororo."

Silence. Breathing. She was convinced — Kyle must have lied about his powers. He must be able to see into people's minds.

"I told him when we started this that I didn't want anything serious. He said he was fine with it."

" _Was._ "

"How do you know all this?"

"He's my best friend, Ororo."

A sigh. She couldn't argue with that. He was Piotr's entire world — at least, the part of it that wasn't devoted to her, against her will. She sighed again, face tight as she scowled at the wall of grey clouds that flew past them.

"What am I supposed to do then?"

He shrugged, face contemplative.

"I can't tell you that. If I tell you to end it, I look like a homewrecker, killing your fun just because I want him. But I'd be a shitty best friend if I let him give you any more of his heart than he already has. It's not fair. To either of you."

He had clearly been thinking about this for a while.

"Right."

"I don't resent you. You've been so kind to me. I think of you like my big sister. I don't want you to think I hate you, or that I think you 'took him away from me'. He was never mine to begin with."

Her heart did flutter at that. She had worried — as Kyle became increasingly misanthropic, increasingly despondent — she had worried that he would grow to hate her, that his love for Piotr would crack open the ground between them, an uncrossable fissure in the earth that would separate them forever.

"I don't think you hate me. I don't think I've ever thought that. As for you, I just hope you find your happiness at some point, Kyle. With or without him."

_Whatever that's supposed to mean. C'mon, Ororo, you can do more for him than that._

Her mind remained blank.

"Thanks."

Silence.

Ororo knew what she had to do.

**November, 2014**

A knock.

"Kyle, may I come in?"

"Door's open."

There he is, six foot stupid in the middle of Kyle's bedroom. He takes up space like a raised voice in the middle of the night. He dominates the room just by existing. There's a droop to his shoulders, the mathematical precision of his expression darkened by some obscured sadness. Kyle wanted to kiss it off his face, that sadness. He wanted to tie his fingers in knots in his hair, wrap his legs around his middle, bring their faces together and let his love flow between them in a shared breath.

But he didn't.

"You okay, Piotr?"

Piotr's head hung. Kyle had never seen him depressed before. He inhaled deeply, swallowing a lump in his throat before he spoke.

"I am a little down today, Kyle. I thought perhaps I would join you on your run. Clear my head."

"Sure thing."

They ran together. Kyle's mind remained firmly within the confines of his body. It rattled around in his skull, bouncing against his brain as he struggled in vain to quiet his thoughts. Piotr jogged beside him, undaunted by Kyle's stamina. He moved gracefully for a man who was the same build as a Honda Civic. No, he was a Jeep, a Range Rover. Piotr was a Hummer, some obscure army vehicle. Kyle watched the muscles in his body move as he ran. Piotr looked like an anatomical model in a textbook — his physique bulged against his skin. Kyle had seen him in battle countless times, yet he still marvelled at his transformation from flesh to metal. His muscles drew stark lines across his body, creating dips and shadows which contrasted against the shine of his body in the light. 

Kyle wanted so desperately to reach out to him, to bring him close. Yes, he wanted to have sex with him — he was only human — but it went beyond that. He wanted to feel Piotr's arms encircle his body as they slept. He wanted to wake up to his sleeping face pressed into Kyle's hair. He wanted to see that devotion in his eyes, wanted to hear those words spoken in hushed tones, for his ears only.

He wanted Piotr to love him the way that Kyle loved him.

Piotr kept pace with Kyle right to the end, tagging out only a few laps before they finished. They sat on the lawn together, getting their breath back, letting the night air chill their flushed faces.

Kyle turned to him in the dusk light, face solemn.

"What's going on, buddy?"

"Ororo and I. She asked to speak with me earlier today. She said that it would be best if we did not continue our relationship."

Kyle hadn't expected that. Part of him felt a stab of guilt — that perhaps he had done the wrong thing by meddling in their situation. Perhaps she would have come around eventually, and they could have pursued something more serious. He watched his hands, saw them clench and unclench as he wrestled with his emotions.

"I'm sorry, Piotr. I thought what you two had was casual?"

Piotr's face tilted towards him, smile self-deprecating, "You know me best, Kyle. I do not do 'casual'. I had thought that maybe if I were to stick with her for long enough, she would be okay with being with me. I think I was wrong."

"I'm sorry." 

_What else can you do but apologize?_

"It is okay. I am used to it. I do not bear anger towards her. She is my friend and sister first."

"You're a good guy, Piotr."

"Thank you. For being here. For helping me to clear my head. You are a good friend to have, Kyle."

Kyle could have argued with him about that one, but he didn't.

**April, 2017**

_Movement in the bed beside him. A tectonic plate — a mass of dirt and rock and metal — flips over on its side, shaking him half-awake from the depths of his dreams. They had fallen asleep apart that night, the air in their room muggy and stifled by an unseasonable heat. That heat had passed in the night, leaving in its wake the delicate kiss of a spring breeze. It ruffles Kyle's hair where he sleeps, just barely disturbing his blond curls where his hand is knotted tightly. He snores into the crook of his elbow, mind coming slowly awake._

_He feels an arm wrapped around his midsection, as thick as his own torso, a hand reaching up to lay flat across his heart, to push his body back into the one which lay waiting for him. He nuzzles gently into the arm that pillows his neck, placing a long kiss to a bicep bigger than his own head. He rustles his feet for a moment, fitting them between Piotr's. In his sleeping state, Piotr does him one better, pulling his leg up around Kyle's hips, wrapping it around his legs. He is enveloped entirely in him, and it is glorious._

_A voice in his hair, breath across his neck._

_"I will never get tired of waking up beside you, my love."_

_A smile. He turns over, curls up against the titan who shares his bed. A kiss at the crown of his head, which Kyle returns to the centre of his chest, just above his heart._

_Two bodies slip once more into dreaming, the world around them left behind._

**July, 2018**

_Dust, again. Over everything. Ash in his fingers, slipping through those empty spaces once more. He always knew he was ash on the inside. That same dust from home, baked into every fibre of his being, now rushing to the surface as his life slips away._

_He felt himself dissolve, watched fear and confusion and agony and despair cross the face of his beloved in a single instant._

_"Please. Please do not leave me, my love. I do not know… what will I do? Please do not leave me Kyle, please."_

_A pair of arms so used to protection, a body so used to throwing itself in front of danger. A man whose sole purpose in life had been to protect those he loves. What does a man like that do when confronted with something like this? Kyle's heart — what little of it was not yet dust — sank at the sight of Piotr's face, twisted in misery at his own powerlessness._

_"Piotr, I'm sorry."_

_Silence, breathing._

_A summer breeze rattles through the mansion, disturbing a pile of dust on the bed._


	2. Birds Of Paradise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our story continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 as promised. It's a hell of a lot easier uploading from desktop lol.

**July, 2023**

_He sees him then, gleaming in the dim twilight of those ashen clouds. He shines, a star among the half-light. Alien gore runs in the crevices of his musculature, dark black oil against vibrant chrome. He is rage unbound, tearing across the landscape. He seeks the one who set this all in motion — the one who brought death to the universe._

_He is beautiful._

_He is all there is to be seen._

_He fights with a grim determination — retribution for his loss his only goal. They fall beneath his blows, undone by his magnificence. He is swarmed by them, crawling over one another to overwhelm him, and still he stands. They are reduced to a fine mist by his fists, endlessly ripping their bodies like flowers plucked from the soil before they bloom. He is a god amongst insects, amongst bacteria. He howls in rage and anguish, sound without language, giving voice to an unnameable loss, the greatest loss the universe has ever seen._

_Kyle breathes in once, exhales deeply, and begins to run._

_As the universe moves around him, his eyes remain fixed on that one constant, his guiding light. He sails past him, revolves in place as he stops, turns to face him. He had asked Jean for a moment's peace, and she — in her limitless power and mercy and love — had granted it to him. She hovers around the battlefield, creating space for reunions, letting hugs and tears and words of love be shared between those long separated. Her gift, her apology for an absence beyond her control._

_He calls once, his name among the myriad cries of the battlefield. He watches his beloved's face turn. Watches metal crease in on itself in the anguish of relief. Watches a million variations of joy and misery and bewilderment and hunger cross his face in a single expression. He is so beautiful, he is the sun, the moon, the universe itself. He is the Earth and the sea and the sky and he is a man. He holds Kyle's heart within himself, his own nestled within the depths of Kyle's soul. Separated in time and space, but no longer._

_He falls to his knees, a statue seeking, arms held wide in front of him as if to gather the universe to his breast. And so he does. His beloved meets him on the shattered Earth, enveloped in those hands outstretched. Kyle's hands cradle his head to his chest. He cannot speak, words choked in the weeds of emotion._

_Colossus — embodiment of his namesake, he who crosses the ocean in a single stride, vast as the Earth itself, unchanging with time, fervent in his protection of those in his charge — embraces him among the scattered corpses of those alien soldiers._

_He feels it then, the wrenching of the earth beneath him — but no, not the ground, but the man in his arms. He folds in on himself, bending to kneel beside him, heads close._

_"Tell me, please. Tell me, my love."_

_"Tell you what, Piotr?"_

_"Tell me it is really you. That I am not dreaming once again. That I am not dead or dying, envisioning my heaven in my final moments as I lay among these creatures. Tell me you have come back to me, that this endeavor has not been in vain."_

_"It's me. I'm here. We're all here. We've come to end this."_

_"I love you."_

_"I love you."_

_They stand together._

_Piotr's eyes never leave his — cobalt blue, the colour of the sky in a childhood memory._

_Kyle leans up on his toes to plant a kiss to his cheek. Piotr smiles — truly, genuinely smiles — for the first time in three years._

_"Let us end this."_

_Kyle nods._

_Somewhere above them, Jean Grey speaks destruction, weaves retribution into the fabric of the universe. The hordes approach once more, and Piotr moves to shield Kyle from them._

_"Together, my love."_

**January, 2015**

A knock on his door, that familiar thud of a too-big hand against aged wood. 

"Kyle, may I come in?"

"Door's open, Piotr."

The door swung wide, creaking on its hinges, as Piotr stepped over the threshold. He ducked his head as he moved — having previously torn a chunk out of the doorframe of Ororo's room, months ago. He stood for a moment, unsure of himself, before she gestured for him to sit. He nodded, wordlessly, and moved to seat himself gently in the chair, conscious of his bulk. Kyle was still astounded at the care he took with his body. Every move was calculated, formulated to have the least impact on everything around him. 

"I hear you are to be leaving us for a while."

Kyle had left it until the last moment to break the news to Piotr. He had been placed on assignment in England, liaising with a group of mutant vigilantes in London. Kyle was there to assist them in an operation, his powers a perfect fit for their needs. He had jumped at the opportunity — he had never left the United States for longer than a few days at a time, and only ever on missions of world-threatening importance. His case lay open on the bed before them, contents spilling out over the sheets — a cross-section of his wardrobe.

"Yeah, I'm headin' off to England for a while. I'm helping out Vulcan and his team with a little problem they've got." He grins, puffing out his chest, "Asked for me by name."

Piotr meets his grin with a strained smile of his own, "That is good news for you my friend. I have been to England before, I think you will like it there."

Kyle shrugs, "Who knows, maybe I'll like it so much I'll stay for good!" He was joking, but he couldn't help but notice the way Piotr's shoulders sank at his words, the way his body seemed to shrink away.

"I do not think I would like that very much."

"Oh, hey, I'm only kidding! I wouldn't wanna leave you guys! This place is still my home, no matter what, you know that."

Piotr wouldn't meet his eye.

"It is whatever that makes you happy, Kyle. Although I would miss you very much if you did go away for good."

"I'd miss you too, buddy."

Silence swims between them once again, awkward and obvious.

"Do you think that I could give you a hug goodbye?"

Kyle's eyes bulged out of his head, voice caught in his throat by surprise.

"Uh… of course you can, Piotr."

He stood, chair groaning in pain underneath him, and crossed the room to where Kyle stood. He swept him into an embrace, tighter and more desperate than he was expecting. He felt shock drain away — all of his dreams having just come true in one instance — fading into serenity as he let himself relax against Piotr, let his body return his embrace in kind. He hoped Piotr didn't notice the way he nuzzled his face into his chest, hoped he would ignore how tightly his hands gripped the fabric of his shirt at his back. So preoccupied as he was with his own embarrassment that he failed to notice Piotr's laboured breathing, the way he held back a flood of emotion that he was not prepared to share. He didn't catch the way his thumb stroked across Kyle's cheek, or how low his hand sat on his back.

They separated, Piotr stepping back, distance rushing to fill the space left behind. He moved in silence to the door, holding it half open with a hand as he prepared to leave.

"I will leave you to finish packing. I hope that you have a good time over there. I will see you when you come home, yes?"

"Of course, Piotr. You'll be the first person I come see, you hear me?"

Piotr smiled, genuine, and shut the door.

Kyle saw him again as he prepared to board, standing awkwardly at the side of the jet. He had never seen Piotr look nervous before, but here it was. His hands fidgeted where he held them at his sides, fiddling with the fabric of his pants. He shifted as Kyle approached him to say goodbye — a hug half formed became a hand clapped on his shoulder.

"I will see you soon, my friend."

A question posed as a statement, seeking reassurance.

"Course you will! I'll bring you back something, don't tell Bobby he'll want one too."

A laugh between friends, a final parting nod, and Kyle was on board.

Piotr watched the jet from the lawn until it disappeared out of sight. 

He returned to his room, shutting the door to the outside world, and let his mind wander. He curled into his covers — a mountain crouching beneath the cover of clouds — and whispered to the silent room, pleading with the universe, and himself.

"Please come back to me soon."

**February, 2015**

A week remained until Kyle was scheduled to return home. He and Vulcan's team had gotten their job done — pretty handily, he might say, if he were in a self-congratulatory mood. He had been getting ready for bed, ready to collapse under his sheets and dream the night away, when his phone buzzed.

_Warren: 3 unread messages._

His face fell into a puzzled expression — Warren very rarely texted Kyle, unless he was looking for someone to go out with, now that Bobby was joined at the hip with his new man. He opened their thread, and scrolled down to the new messages.

_Hey_

_I know it's probably late over there, sorry_

_You're coming home soon, right?_

Warren wasn't the sentimental type — although he had heard rumours from Ororo that perhaps things were changing — and so Kyle's heart began to race with that uncertain irregularity that accompanies anxiety.

_Dw, I'm in bed, but not sleeping yet_

_I'm coming home next week, why?_

It took a few minutes for his phone to buzz again.

_It's Pete_

_What's wrong with him?_

_He misses you_

_A lot_

_A lot a lot_

_Should I call him?_

_I don't know…_

_I'm not good at this_

_I just thought you should know since he's your friend_

_Ok_

_Thanks Warren_

Warren left his last message unread, having evidently performed enough charity for one night. Kyle's mind whirled. Yes, he and Piotr were friends — best friends, even, if you had best friends at their age. And yes, it was true that Kyle was in love with him, but at the same time he had never let that come between them — at least, he had hoped. They still ran together on occasion, they still made a great team in the Danger Room, he still found himself drawn to Piotr whenever they went into town as a group for a night. They had always been close. And yes, they had been apart before, missed one another. So why did Warren — of all people — feel the need to bring it up?

He called Piotr.

_"Hello Kyle, I did not think you would be calling me at this time, is it not late over there in England?"_

"Hey. No, it's cool, I'm still awake. Is this a good time?"

_"Yes, of course. I am not doing anything."_

"Alright." A pause, as Kyle lines up his thoughts, "Uh… Warren texted me. Said you weren't doing too well at the moment."

Silence on the other end. Kyle could hear him breathing.

_"Oh, it is okay! I am just missing you at the moment, that is all. I was a bit down today, and I would have liked to go on a run with you if you had been here. I think Warren must have noticed my mood, and felt bad for me."_

"So you're okay? You promise?"

_"Yes, yes! I am doing fine. I just had a bad day. I did not feel like myself."_

"Okay well, I'll be home in like a week, and maybe we can go for that run then?"

_"I would like that. I will let you go now, I will not keep you too late. Goodnight, my friend."_

Kyle's protest was cut off by the sound of Piotr ending their call abruptly. He breathed for a moment, phone still held to his ear. Piotr's voice had a peculiar quality to its tone — sickly sweet and cheery in such an obviously false way that it rattled Kyle a little.

Something wasn't right.

**December, 2014**

Kyle sat alone in an armchair in the common room. His long legs were folded up and onto the seat, his head slouched into the cushion. He was half-asleep, watching some nature documentary about the fastest animals on the planet. He wondered quietly as he watched if those simple creatures felt the way he did when he moved. If they felt that 'cosmic uncoupling', as Hank had termed it. Kyle called it freedom.

The door creaked as it swung open, Bobby slipping through as though he didn't want to be seen. He caught Kyle's eye, and grinned.

"Hey, I was looking for you."

Kyle turned to him, lowering the volume of the television.

"What's up?"

"I heard Pete and Ororo packed up their… situation. I was wondering when you were gonna make a move."

Kyle felt it then, the sudden switch from calm to rage. It made his head spin, nausea pricking at the back of his throat as he willed himself calm. Blood thumped behind his eyes, mouth flooding with venom.

"What the fuck are you talking about, Bobby?"

It was clear that Bobby hadn't anticipated this reaction. His face twisted into a grimace, the sudden realization that he had gone too far showing plainly.

"I just thought you'd…"

"That I'd what?" he interrupted, voice rising, "That I'd go and put myself — and him — through the wringer again just because I can?"

"I didn't mean it like that, Kyle."

"Then how did you mean it? Huh?" He was standing now, hands on his hips, and rage in his voice. Bobby shrank back from him, and a tiny part of Kyle's mind — a vile, petty part that disgusted him — screeched in joy, ecstatic that they were hurting someone else, that another person had to share in their pain.

"I just thought that maybe Peter would try it, with you. Now that he… you know, now that he's been with someone on the team, and they're okay after. They're still friends, still close. Maybe he'd be willing to try…"

Kyle wanted to hate Bobby. He wanted to hit him, to rush at him and tear his empty head from his shoulders and fling it off the roof of the mansion. But he couldn't. He couldn't hate him. He thought he was helping. He saw a friend in pain and was trying his best to offer a solution. 

Inhale, exhale. Repeat until calm.

"Listen. Really listen to me here Bobby. I don't need your help, okay? Or your boyfriend's, or anyone's, alright? I'm fine. Me and Piotr are fine. And you know what?" Here it comes, he thinks, here comes the words I'm going to regret. "I don't appreciate you meddling in my shit, you hear me? Cause I don't think it's fuckin' fair, or fuckin' nice, that you get to come here and tell me what I should and shouldn't do with my own heart. I don't think that's fuckin' fair, when you come in here thinking you're helping telling me this shit, because when it's all over, and I have to go to sleep tonight, playing this over in my head, you get to crawl into bed with your boyfriend and sleep without a care in the world!"

"Kyle…" Bobby's tone was soft, pleading, but Kyle couldn't stop.

"And I know you know what it was like. I know you remember being alone in this place — surrounded by people who love you, but it's just not right. I remember you almost leaving us back then. I remember you walking out, saying you had had enough. And who brought you back, Bobby? Me! I begged you to stay because you were my big brother and I didn't wanna lose you! And look at us now Bobby! You got your new man — and I'm happy for you, I truly am, I wish you two nothing but the best — but where does that leave me? Scott's got Jean now, you've got John. This place — you all — you're my family. You're all I've got! So excuse me if I'm not first in line to destroy the one solid friendship I have in this house — the first one I ever fuckin' made — as soon as the opportunity arises!"

Silence. Kyle's chest heaved. Tears — hot and angry — streamed down his face. His voice had risen steadily as he raged, his fingers jabbing in the air between them. Bobby stood, shell-shocked, hands caught halfway between his sides and reaching for Kyle.

A shaky inhale, "Bobby… I'm sorry, please don't-"

A hand raised to silence him. A step forward, closing the unimaginable gulf that had opened up between them.

"I'm not mad at you, Kyle. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push. I'm sorry that you got pushed to the sidelines just because I've got someone new in my life. I love you, buddy, you're my brother, just like you said." Bobby's arms completed their movement, shifting to pull Kyle into an embrace. He was taller than Bobby by several inches, but his outburst had deflated him, pulling him in on himself so that he curled against Bobby where he held him. "I just see you every day, and you're so sad, and I know why, but we can't do anything. I just want to see you smile again, Kyle."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, please."

"I love you, Bobby." A pause as Kyle readied himself to admit a truth he had never previously voiced, "I used to look up to you, when I first got here."

"Me?"

"Yeah. I wanted to be like you. You just seemed confident in who you were. We were double freaks — gay and mutant, some unholy union that you'd hear about on the radio in my hometown — but you didn't seem to care. You were just Bobby, and you did what you want with whoever you wanted and you didn't give a shit who saw. I thought you were so cool."

Bobby chuckled, "Why is this all in the past tense? You don't think I'm cool anymore?"

Kyle laughed with him, pulling out of their embrace as misery released its hold on his body. They stood in silence for a moment, sifting through the debris of their argument for the connection that had been misplaced in the interim.

Bobby spoke first.

"Listen. I know you're in love with him. I also know that you're afraid, that he's afraid. I'm not saying you need to throw yourself at his feet and beg, I'm just saying that he might be more open to things than you'd think. Don't let this opportunity pass you by."

Kyle ran a hand across his features, as if attempting to reconfigure them back into their usual positions.

"I'll think about it. I just don't want to get hurt, or for him to get hurt."

"I know, it's rough. I'm here for you. I know I say that all the time and it seems like I'm not really, but if you call, I'll come running."

"That means a lot to me."

"You know what they say, bros before hoes."

"I'm going to tell John you said that."

"Please don't."

**February, 2016**

Ororo loved the rain. It would be trivial for her, with the use of her powers, to make it rain whenever she wanted, whenever she needed a moment of calm. But she didn't. That would steal the magic. The rain relaxed her through its spontaneity. It was the random patter of droplets, gently increasing to a regular rattle against the window pane, that soothed her mind. It was the beating of water against the leaves of the trees that surrounded the property. It was the scent, the essence of the atmosphere distilled into a single drop of water, that brought her peace. So no, Storm never engineered her own rainstorms. 

It was one such day, the heavens finally having opened the floodgates after a morning of threatening rain, that Piotr knocked on her door.

"Ororo, may I come in?"

"Sure, Piotr. It's unlocked."

He moved in gently, a familiar stoop to his body as he ducked under the frame. His body overwhelmed her space. He was grandiose in every sense of the word. He was an immensity, impossible to ignore. That day, however, he seemed to be deflated, lustre having faded somewhat from his eyes. He was gargantuan — a landmass that walked on two legs. Yet he curled in on himself, as if trying to disappear, to sink into the floor, or the chair. 

"Everything okay?"

There was silence. Not awkward, not pointed. Just silence. She watched his face, watched a thousand expressions cross his features — thoughts without voice, questions and pleadings and cries for help.

"I think I am in love."

A sigh escaped her lips, more harshly than she felt appropriate. Outside the window, a gust of wind rattled the trees, wrestling droplets where they hung from the leaves. Absently, she wondered if she had caused it or not.

"Piotr, I thought we were over this? I thought you had moved on?"

"With Kyle."

Ororo's mind felt like a glass of water on the edge of a table. She took a moment to respond, gently prodding the glass to the centre, keeping it away from sweeping hands, from movements less delicate than were necessary. 

"Umm… can I ask you something? And I don't want you to take this the wrong way."

"Yes?"

"Why are you telling _me_? I feel like Kyle would be pretty happy to hear that. Over the moon, even."

Piotr's hands fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. How could a man his size look so much like a child?

"I am afraid, Ororo. I am thinking that if we are together, he will grow to resent me. I am very intense. We talked about this, you and I. You told me I want too much, that I am in love too quickly, that I do not give time to be alone."

Ororo's heart sank. Piotr was a pure creature, a heart and mind untainted by hatred, by pettiness. Fiercely loyal, compassionate to a fault. He was pure, molten affection, encased within impervious metal. And she had punctured him, shot right through his heart with her words.

"Piotr. I never meant to hurt you, I-"

"You are not the first to tell me, Ororo. I do not bear you anger. I am simply scared. I do not want Kyle to grow to hate me. I do not want him to not be my friend." His body collapsed in on itself, as if the very thought of Kyle's absence in his life was enough to shake him to his core. Ororo had never seen him like this before — Colossus, their very own Iron Man, indestructible, indefatigable — curled in her armchair like a kid who lost his mom.

Ororo moved to embrace his shoulders. He was too wide, her arms unable to complete the circle. Piotr leaned his head on her shoulder, eyes shut against emotion. She spoke to his hair, that familiar scent of mint, tinged with an undercurrent of iron — metallic tang and soft florals.

"You're a sweet man, did you know that?" Piotr shook his head, hair tickling the skin of her neck where it brushed against it. "I think you should talk to him, tell him how you feel, okay? You never know, he might still be open to you. Just… talk to him. Promise me."

"I promise. Thank you, Ororo."

He laid a hand over hers where it hung around his neck. They sat like that for a moment, breathing. Ororo let her mind wander, let herself wonder what it could have been like to be with him, in the way he wanted — to be loved so completely by another person, to allow herself to be subsumed within a whole.

**February, 2016**

Piotr sat alone on the mansion’s porch. He had occupied one of the wooden rocking chairs since very early that evening, just as the sun began to fall below the treeline. He let his mind wander to the sound of wind through the trees, gently whistling as the air itself seemed to fall to sleep with the setting sun. All was still, save for his gentle rocking on the creaking wood of the porch. He had brought a blanket — he wasn't stupid — and had to admit that it was actually quite cozy out there. Just him, his thoughts, and the nearly overwhelming desire he harboured for his best friend, hovering just out of sight above the pines — a dark shape in his vision. 

He had bitten the corners of his fingers raw with nervousness, and so he held them firmly in his lap.

He heard the jet before he saw it, a great roaring hum that rocked the air around the mansion, disturbing what few creatures had returned from winter's sleep. Piotr's heart made its presence known once more, thumping in the hollow of his chest as he awaited touch down. For a brief second, he thought he caught Kyle's confused face, looking down at him through the glass of the cockpit.

Kyle stepped out onto the frigid grass of the lawn, a great yawn stretching his mouth wide as he reached towards the stars, arms high above his head. Piotr watched the fabric of his shirt bunch up, revealing his skin, and swallowed hard. He bade farewell to Vulcan, who departed, a meeting with the Avengers at their headquarters awaiting him. He waved to Piotr from his spot on the lawn, a gesture he returned meekly.

"What are you doing out here all alone in the cold?"

Piotr raised his feet from the ground, kicking gently in imitation of an excited child.

"I am not cold. I am very cozy under my blanket, thank you."

Their faces cracked, creasing into delighted laughter. Piotr raised his arms, inviting Kyle to embrace him, which he did. He couldn't help but notice the deep inhale as Piotr's arms closed around him, or the way his cheek pressed closely to Kyle's heart.

"I missed you, Kyle," he whispered, voice brimming with emotion.

Kyle brought a hand to his hair, ruffling it gently.

"I missed you too, Piotr." Kyle shifted out of the embrace, moving to sit cross-legged beside Piotr's chair. "Are you feeling better?"

"Hmmm. I am feeling better than the other day, yes, but I am not better, I do not think. Not yet."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Is there anything I could do?"

Piotr was silent for a moment, his hand caught in yet another half-movement, reaching towards Kyle's hair. 

"I have something to say, if you would allow me."

Kyle swallowed hard. He never enjoyed what came after questions like that, "Go ahead."

"I think that I may be in love with you."

Kyle couldn't move. His eyes stared straight ahead, watching but not watching a hawk chase down a pigeon, somewhere in the sky above the trees. He watched the two birds wheel and twist in the air, a violent ballet that could only end badly for either. He felt Piotr's hand come to rest in his hair. The touch felt different, somehow, than any gesture they may have shared before. He let his head sag, let it come to rest on Piotr's knee.

"I don't know what to say. I thought you… I thought you didn't want to risk our friendship?"

"I did not. It was at the suggestion of Ororo that I decided to speak to you, that it was the best course of action. She told me that you were in pain, and that perhaps my telling you would help." A pause. Three fingers stroked through the curls on Kyle's head. "Tell me, my friend, are you in pain? Have you been hiding it from me for all of this time?"

Kyle shifted his head so that his chin rested on Piotr's knee, his eyes meeting his — titanium blue, the colour of the ocean in a travel magazine, the colour of the sky at midday when you're lying on the grass, exhausted after a run — and nodded.

"I've been hurtin', Piotr. I'm sorry."

"Do you think that maybe we could try? I am afraid, as you know. I am afraid that I will be too much, that you will not be able to spare room in your heart for the love I have to give you. But also I would like for us to try. I think it is worth the risk."

"What changed your mind?"

"When you left the mansion. I thought that perhaps the emptiness in my heart was simply boredom, that I was left with a lack of activity because it is you that I always do things with. But as time moved on, I found the void growing larger, more potent. My thoughts wandered, always meandering back to you. All paths led to you. All signs bore your name, all images bore your face. I knew, then, that I had fallen for you."

Kyle's mind reeled. He hadn't known Piotr to be so poetic in his speech before. In all his dreaming fantasies of this moment, he would never have expected those words to issue forth from Piotr's mouth, to resound to sweetly in his ears as though spoken directly to his soul. He rose to his full height, just barely passing the crown of Piotr's head, and embraced him once more.

"Piotr." His name whispered in revelation, devotion, "I don't know what's gonna happen between us in the future. But, if you wanna do this, I'm here."

Piotr's hands found his waist, pulled him into his lap. Kyle sat, arms around his neck, head resting on his shoulder. There were a few minutes of movement then, as Piotr wrapped them in the blanket, adjusting it so it draped over both of their bodies, protecting them from the chill. Kyle marvelled at his embrace — his body was marble hard and pillow soft and he smelled like oak wood and flowers. His arms bracketed Kyle's torso, hands wide and flat across his body — chaste in their placement, a restrained hunger vibrating just underneath the skin. 

He was a sweetheart.

He turned his head, face close enough to Kyle's that their noses brushed, sending a tickling sensation rippling through their little blanket fortress. When he spoke, his voice was as much a rumble through Kyle's body as it was sound in his ears.

"Are you comfortable?"

"Never better."

Piotr moved forwards, tilting Kyle's face towards him with a flick of his nose. Their eyes locked, mouths just barely grazing in the space between. Piotr's eyes fluttered shut as he closed the gap, and Kyle felt the Earth's magnetic field rearrange itself. Piotr's kiss was soft, gentle, exploratory. Kyle felt himself melt into it, felt his body meld into Piotr's. His hand wandered across the plain of his chest, up his neck, around his head, fingers toying with the hairs at the back of his neck. Piotr's right hand cupped his head, fingers knotted into Kyle's curls. They parted, eyes still closed, and breathed gently against one another.

Somewhere above them, Warren laid on the roof, gazing up at the stars that had just emerged, the figure next to him leaning over the edge of the tiles, eavesdropping on the events unfolding below.

"Our friend, Piotr, he appears to have reconciled with Kyle."

Warren's head tilted to regard him, foot nudging at his backside.

"Hey, don't be nosy! C'mere, let them have their moment."

Kurt's eyes rolled, but he made his way back to Warren's side all the same, laying across him, head on his stomach. Warren's hand shifted from behind his head, settling gently across Kurt's throat, fingers reaching to stroke along his cheekbone.

"I am happy for them."

"Me too, Kurt."

"I would be even happier if you went downstairs and brought us those beers that you forgot when we came up here."

"Kurt, you can teleport, why don't you just do it?"

"It is the principle, my darling."

"I should have left you in Munich."

**April, 2016**

Piotr's anatomy had often been the subject of speculation in the Xavier mansion. Up until that point, Ororo was the only member of the household who knew the truth, and she was unwilling to spill. Bobby had been endlessly pestering her for what had been approaching two years at that point, begging her to tell him. 

It was an open secret among them that Hank was harbouring a Howitzer in his pants — his scatterbrained nature often leaving him in the shower without his towel. Warren had seen it one evening, as he swung by his window on his way to his own room, trying in vain to escape notice. No one had told Hank — they felt it best to pretend that they didn't know, to preserve his dignity. Jean had confided to Ororo on a night out — mind drowning several shots deep in tequila — that Scott was _noteworthy_ , also. Kyle hadn't thought that was fair. Scott was a dumbass, why did he deserve that? Bobby had agreed, lamenting that he had felt like a eunuch at the team's last visit to the beach.

With so much private knowledge being out in the open, Kyle had wondered long about Piotr — seemingly the only member of the team whose member had not been fully schematized in everyone's minds.

He hadn't been disappointed.

What had been disappointing — frustrating, even — was Piotr's too-careful attitude, when it came time to make a move. Kyle appreciated his affection, of course — appreciated the gentle way his hands held him, placed him on their bed, removed his clothes. He loved it, it was wonderful. At the same time, he wasn't made of glass. One night, Piotr's breath soft in his ear as they moved together, Kyle placed a hand firmly on his chest, pushing him up.

"Is everything okay?"

"Yeah… I just-" A sigh of frustration and a moan of pleasure jostled for prominence, the resulting noise somewhere in between. Kyle's hand patted his chest once, "Can you just stop moving, for a second."

Piotr stilled immediately, concern creasing his features. He was the most adorable creature Kyle had ever encountered.

"Am I hurting you?"

"No. Kinda the opposite, baby."

"What do you mean?"

"Piotr, you are amazing in bed, and I love you."

He grinned, chest puffing with pride. He ran a hand along Kyle's jaw, travelling the length of his body, settling on his stomach where his fingers drew little distracted patterns.

"Okay, thank you. But-"

" _But,_ I'd like it if you could be a little more… forceful."

Something changed behind Piotr's eyes — a fire, already present but only smouldering lightly, blazed. His hands found their way underneath Kyle, lifting him to his chest as Piotr shifted the two of them to the edge of the bed. Piotr's grip shifted to his ankles, pressing his knees to his chest as he bore his weight down onto him. Immediately Kyle felt it — the same sensation as on a roller-coaster, just at the apex of the climb.

"I can do that. Are you sure that it is what you want?" His voice was low, eyes dark with a mixture of lust and mischief that Kyle had never seen before. Who was this man?

Kyle's voice emerged breathless, gasping from a warm pool of desire in the pit of his stomach, "Yes, please."

Piotr gave him what he asked for, as he always did.

They lazed together afterwards, nowhere to be, nowhere to go. Kyle laid on top of Piotr, arms curled under him, head tucked beneath Piotr's chin. Piotr's hands blanketed his body, warmth spreading between them. 

"I don't know if I'll be able to walk right again after that."

Piotr laughed under him, freely and without embarrassment. Kyle's body shook with the movement, head held tightly to Piotr's chest.

"I hope it was not too much." Always concerned, always caring. Always sweet.

"It was everything, Piotr."

A kiss to his forehead.

"I am glad that you had fun. It is not often that I am able to be like that with my partners. It is very enjoyable."

"I could tell."

"And you are sure that that is how you like to do it?"

"I mean, don't get me wrong, I'll take whatever you wanna give me — but yeah, that was pretty much exactly how I like it."

A laugh that rocked Kyle's entire body. Piotr shifted them over so that they laid on their sides, face to face. His hand swept from Kyle's hip to his jaw, and back again. Kyle cuddled against him, head curled in the space between his neck and the mattress.

"Are you going to sleep?"

A yawn in reply, a great sighing yawn, as Kyle shuffled his body closer to his under the covers. Piotr pulled the blankets around their bodies, pressing Kyle's tiny frame to his chest. He was a sleeping animal, coiled and feline in his bed, Piotr some grand primate — hitherto undiscovered. 

Piotr wrapped him up in his arms, a kiss to his head, a smile on his lips.

They fell together to dreaming, the slow, deep sleep of a mind in peace.

**May, 2016**

Another night, another nature documentary. Kyle sat slouched into the cushions of the sofa, long legs stretched out in front, a blanket over them. He let his mind drift as he watched a leopard stalk a wounded prey animal, leg dragging uselessly behind it in a great bloom of scarlet gore. Kyle never knew who to root for, predator or prey, with these shows, although he would admit a certain satisfaction in watching a limber, fleet-footed creature escape certain death at the teeth and claws of some monstrous killer.

Piotr had been on mission for over a week, and Kyle was desperately willing himself not to pine like a Victorian housewife. Piotr texted him whenever he could, and they had shared rather a sweet phone call the night previous, Kyle staying awake far into the night as they bridged the gap between time zones. He had fallen asleep with his phone in his hand and a smile on his face. He had awoken to a text from Piotr, telling him how he had stayed on the line for another while after, listening to the sounds of Kyle's sleeping breaths.

_I hope that is not a creepy thing to do!_

Kyle thought it was anything but.

He and John had gone for dinner in the city earlier in the week, each talking about anything other than their worry for their absent boyfriends. He had warmed up to John considerably in those past few weeks — warmed up to everyone, really — and had found that the two had much in common.

"Well, I heard you got kicked out for being a mutant, so I guess I kinda know what that's like."

Kyle nodded, pouring himself more water — he had forgotten his ID, and the waitress had absolutely not believed him when he told her he was 23. John had laughed, which hadn't done a lot to help his case.

"What did they get you on?"

"Found out that the lacrosse player I had been tutoring was actually just throwing it back for me three times a week."

" _Throwing it back_? Dude, I'm from the South, so believe me when I tell you, you're too white to use that phrase."

"I mean, what else would you call it?"

"Literally anything else."

"Whatever."

They paused as the waitress brought them their food. He caught the glance she threw John as their eyes met over his plate of just barely reheated diner lasagne, caught the slight smile that played on her lips. John gave her absolutely nothing in return, choking out a barely just polite enough thank you as she left.

"Not your type?"

John huffed a laugh, shaking his head, "Not quite."

"Wait, let me guess your type, I love doing this, I'm really good."

John spoke through a mouth of lasagna which had all the texture and consistency of wet cement, "Shoot."

"So you like girls too, right?" A nod. "Okay. So for girls I'm gonna guess that you like tall… and like, dark and moody and brooding. Like what's that girl from that movie we watched, with the witches?"

"The Craft?"

"Yeah! I bet you like ones like her."

"She wasn't tall at all."

"Okay but like her if she were tall then."

John made a face, "Eh… kinda close. I'll give it to you."

"Okay, so guys. This is easier, cause I know what I'm doin' with this."

"True. By the way, do I have to guess you after?"

"I mean, you don't have to. I'm not gonna hold a gun to your head if it's that much of an imposition."

"No it's just I'm gonna start thinking now."

"Oh, sure, yeah. Anyway. This is easy, I think you have a type and I think it's really specific."

John swallowed, eyebrow raised, "Oh?"

"I think you go absolutely buck wild for some dumbass who looks like he plays sports and can't tie his shoelaces without help." 

John's face went blank, and Kyle had to suppress laughter, lest he choke on his food. John jabbed his fork at him pointedly, a smile threatening to break through his stern composure.

"How dare you attack me like that. How dare you come for me. I was going to pay for this, but you can fuck off now."

"I see you watching those games with Bobby. You're never watching the ball, I know that for sure."

"Listen, when they're dumb, they don't talk back as much. They laugh at everything you say, it's like having a puppy."

"Poor Bobby."

"Poor Bobby? Poor me! I have to listen to his dumb ass every day." A pause as their laughter settled, silence as they ate. John picked the thread back up as they finished, trying in vain to remove all of the red from around his mouth. "So tell me, I know you haven't had a whole lot of boyfriends — given your circumstances — but-"

"One. Piotr's the only one." Kyle's voice had a certainty to it that he himself found a little disconcerting. "So far," he added hastily.

"Oh, wow. Didn't know that. But like… you've _been_ with other guys, right?"

Kyle grinned, "I've been around, a little. Not as much as your little snowman, but I've had some fun."

"Oh I'm well aware of what Bobby has gotten up to."

"Does it bother you?"

He shook his head, "Why would it? He looks at me like the last slice of pizza at 3 a.m. I'm not concerned about him going anywhere."

"Don't act like you're not wrapped around his little finger too, I see the way you get when he's scheduled to come home. Pacin' across that porch like God knows what, chain-smoking until you hear the jet come down." Kyle's finger wiggled in John's face, tone light and teasing. 

John smiled, batting his hand away, face reddening.

"I know. I hate it." As far as Kyle was concerned, he didn't look like he hated it. Not one bit. 

Kyle's body jolted as he fell out of his half-sleep. The documentary had finished, replaced by a new show about a rehabilitation center for morbidly obese housecats. Kyle's sleep-clogged mind boggled at the size of the creatures, grumpily trundling along on leashes as their owners forced them into some form of exercise. So entranced as he was by their feline meanderings that he failed to notice the creaking door of the common room, failed to catch on to the presence behind him until it was right behind his head.

"I was sad that you did not come to see me as we landed, Kyle."

It took a superhuman amount of self-control on Kyle's part not to shoot out of his skin at the sudden reappearance of Piotr, inches from his face. He remained prone across the cushions, tilting his head to regard his skyscraper of a boyfriend, crouched beside him at the arm of the couch.

"How can you be as big as you are and not make any noise? Jesus… you almost gave me a heart attack!"

Piotr threw his head back in laughter, hand falling to his chest as he tried not to sink to the floor. Kyle batted at his hand on the couch, laughter breaking out across his own face. Piotr calmed eventually, moving to rest his chin on the arm, gazing up at Kyle with eyes wide.

"Are you not going to welcome me home?"

Kyle's eyes rolled, almost out of his head entirely, but he brought his head down to meet Piotr's mouth, a hand running through his hair. They pulled apart softly, Piotr nosing into Kyle's cheek gently, lips meeting his skin, revelling in the warmth.

"I missed you, baby."

"I missed you too. I brought you a gift, it is in my bag in our room."

"You're sweet, you didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to."

Kyle chuckled, another kiss to Piotr's forehead. He pulled off suddenly, face creased in disgust.

"Oh god, you stink! When was the last time you showered?"

"We have been travelling for many hours today, I have not had the opportunity." He paused, voice dropping to a rumbling whisper, a finger running circles in the loose fabric of Kyle's shirt — formerly Piotr's. "Perhaps you would like to join me?"

"I suddenly can't think of anything I'd rather do more."

Piotr carried him over his shoulder to the shower, ignoring his laughing protests.

Kyle, if he were being honest, hadn't actually expected there to be an awful lot of showering, but there he was, massaging shampoo into Piotr's hair as he sat on the floor.

"I figured when you asked me to shower with you that we were gonna… you know."

"I do not like to do this in the shower, it is too dangerous. We could slip."

"Piotr, you can turn into metal."

"But you cannot."

Silence, as Kyle rinsed his hair out. He was fascinated by Piotr's body — the way water cascaded down his musculature in tiny rivulets, the way his skin shone with dampness, the way his hair hung loose across his face, waiting to be swept back up into his usual style. He completely dominated the space of the shower — the statue of David trapped in a broom closet. He allowed Kyle's hands to wander freely, only stopping them once to place a soft kiss to his palm, a gentle thank you for his ministrations. His head tilted back, regarding Kyle with a smile so bright and genuine that it blasted all other information out of his visual centers. Piotr was, as far as Kyle was concerned in that moment, the absolute center of the universe.

"I love you."

Three words to stop time, to pluck your heart out of your chest and restart it again, to catch the breath in your throat, to sap the strength from your legs so you kneel next to him under the flow of water.

"I love you too."

Piotr stood with him then, and Kyle let himself sink into sensation, melt into the feeling of Piotr's hands across his body. Piotr was a man capable of such stunning acts of strength — always in service of others, always protecting, always defending those who couldn't defend themselves. His body was pure power, strength coiled in his muscles — enough to pummel rocks into dust. And yet, here he stood, hands so gentle across Kyle's head. Fingers in his scalp, a hand on his back to steady him against his body. 

Kyle woke as the water shut off, blinking droplets out of his eyes.

"I think I fell asleep for a sec there."

"I think you did," he replied, chuckling lightly as he shifted Kyle back to standing from where he had slumped against him.

"Maybe we should go to sleep."

"I would like that, let us go."

Piotr fished Kyle's gift out of his bag as they settled under the covers. Kyle wore Piotr's sweatshirt over his sleeping shorts. It was huge on him, more of a poncho than a sweater, sleeves hanging well past his hands. Piotr didn't sleep in a shirt, preferring to warm his body against Kyle's under the sheets. Kyle took the envelope from Piotr, opening it to reveal a Polaroid, of all things. It was a picture of a lock, hooked onto a bridge, by the looks of it. Scratched into the metal — probably courtesy of Piotr's fingernail — were a few letters; K and P, a line joined between them.

"Henry told me about the practice of the locks. Lovers put them on the bridge, and it is a symbol that their love will be forever, as long as the lock remains. I thought it would be nice."

Kyle coughed lightly to disguise the sob that threatened to escape from his throat. What planet was this man from? He thought back to John's assertion that Bobby had to be some overgrown species of hairless dog, concluding that Piotr must be of similar ilk.

"You're the sweetest man on the planet, did you know that? Thank you."

He looked back to Piotr finally, who met his gaze with a serene smile. His head rested on his chin, eyes drooping ever so slightly as Kyle bent to kiss him.

"You are welcome, my love." A pause, Piotr running his hand gently up and down Kyle's side, "I am sure you would like to continue what we had begun in the shower, but I think it may be wise for us to sleep, instead."

"I'd like that more, I think."

Kyle shifted, curling his body into Piotr's open arms as they settled together. Piotr spoke to him once more, breath warm on his cheek. Kyle didn't respond, already in the grips of sleep.

"I will see you in my dreams, my love."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed that, and if you did, please go seek out So Hot You're Hurting My Feelings, available by scrolling up to the top, and looking in the series page. 
> 
> If you're reading this long after it goes up, there *should* be a wealth of stuff for you to read of my X-Men fics, so go buck wild, as Kyle might say.
> 
> See you soon for part 3 of the series, Sacrilege, before we enter the big leagues with Cadence in the spring.
> 
> Until next time, much appreciation for your time, 
> 
> Mallaeus.


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